


I Thought What I Felt Was Simple

by meansgirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Awesome Mrs. Hudson, Breaking Up & Making Up, Feels, Fluff, Hotels, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Post-Season/Series 04, Reconciliation, Reconciliation Sex, Slow Dancing, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:27:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25895917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meansgirl/pseuds/meansgirl
Summary: After John and Sherlock elope and invite their family and friends to a small impromptu reception, recently broken-up Mycroft and Greg find themselves booked to the same hotel room.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 44
Kudos: 412





	I Thought What I Felt Was Simple

**Author's Note:**

> I do, on occasion, write canon-compliant things ;)

It starts with this: 

Greg leans into Mycroft, up against the door to the hotel room, and pushes his hands under his suit jacket. Mycroft’s hands grip his arse and haul him in close to grind their raging erections together.    


“Jesus Christ,” Greg grates out between deep, heated kisses. “I’ve missed this.”

No. 

It doesn't start here. 

  
  


***

  
  


It starts here: 

Greg recognizes the back of his head - of course he does. Mycroft’s casually dressed in nice wool trousers, and a soft jumper with a crisp button-down underneath. His hair isn’t totally slicked down. He’s been on a plane just as long as Greg has, and might even have been in first class on the same flight for all Greg knows. 

He looks good, even just from the back. Maybe especially. He’s obviously been running a lot lately; his arse looks perfect. 

Greg stands behind him in line, some stranger standing in between them waiting their turn at check-in, and says nothing. Doesn't know what he would say, if Mycroft turned around and saw him. He probably wouldn’t be able to say anything. Maybe just nod. The thought makes him feel vaguely sick. He can’t stand the thought of making eye contact with Mycroft and not… 

There’s something wrong, some sort of snag happening between Mycroft and the receptionist. She’s gesturing with her hands, and Greg can read her lips saying she’s  _ so sorry, _ as she picks up the phone and holds up one placating hand to make a phone call. There are two people manning the desk now, and the woman who’d been standing between Greg and Mycroft has stepped up to the other person at the desk, so now all there is between them is air. Mycroft’s texting someone. 

Greg holds his breath, like he’s afraid if he lets it out Mycroft will feel it from meters away and turn around and see him. 

Greg’s mobile buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it because he’s too busy being annoyed at himself for internally falling apart like a teenager at the sight of the little freckle just below Mycroft’s hairline. 

“Sir?”

Greg realizes the woman’s left and now it’s his turn, and he’s going to have to step up to the desk and stand beside Mycroft now. There’s no way Mycroft will miss him. 

Fighting the urge to hold his garment bag up to hide his face like a celebrity running from the paparazzi, Greg bites the bullet and approaches. 

“Lestrade,” he says, and carefully does not turn his head even as he sees Mycroft react out of the corner of his eye. 

“Could you spell that for—” 

“Don’t bother.” 

Greg blinks and turns his head  _ very  _ slowly. Mycroft isn’t looking at him, but at the hotel employee. 

“Your colleague is currently attempting to untangle a bit of a mess. It seems Mister Lestrade and I were mistakenly booked to the same room.”

Greg feels the world rumble under his feet. Or he wishes he did.  _ Tomorrow’s headline: Freak Earthquake Rocks New York City, Saves Visiting English Copper From Awkward Ex Conversation! _

“Oh,” says the man at the desk - Lonnie, his name tag says - “Oh, my apologies. We just switched over to—” 

“A new system, yes,” Mycroft says, and no one would be able to hear the annoyed impatience in it unless they knew him pretty well. 

Greg bites his tongue and tries not to smile.

Mycroft continues, “We’re both here for the same wedding, you see.”

“How nice!” Lonnie smiles. “The Watsons, right?”

Greg laughs a little bit under his breath. “The Watsons,” he repeats. 

Mycroft cuts him a look but says nothing. “It’s my brother’s wedding,” he says. 

Lonnie winces and makes eye contact with the other receptionist, who is clearly on hold, probably with management, and who does not look hopeful. 

“You’re booked up,” Greg guesses. 

Lonnie looks forlorn. 

Greg takes a deep breath and turns to Mycroft. 

That’s not where it starts, either. 

  
  


***

  
  


It starts weeks before that, when Mycroft answers Greg’s phone call. It’s a surprise, because he’d just ignored about twenty of Greg’s texts over the course of a week. At first Greg thought he was out of the country and on communication blackout. It wouldn’t be the first time, but Mycroft’s always warned him before. 

He knows Mycroft isn’t out of the country because Sherlock mentioned seeing him several days ago. So Mycroft’s just been ignoring him. 

Greg calls him as a last ditch effort. He’s pretty angry at this point, and is ready to have a bit of a row about it. Or at least to leave a very strongly worded voicemail. 

“We need to talk,” Mycroft says instead of ‘Hello.’

Greg knows immediately that he’s about to be dumped, and despite the week of radio silence, it still feels like a slap to the face. 

He thought things were going so well. It’s been six months of this, of long talks over drinks and dinners, and then lunches when they could manage, and sex.  _ Lots of sex.  _ The last time Greg saw Mycroft in person was in bed. Greg pulled him down, fully dressed, for one last good, firm kiss before Mycroft left for his early meeting. And then… nothing. 

Mycroft and Sherlock have a sister. She almost killed them both last year. Greg wandered in at the last minute and drove Mycroft home because Sherlock asked him to and then… then they…

And it’s been  _ good.  _ Mycroft’s had a hard time with everything that happened. Greg only knows bits and pieces, stuff he’s figured out from the official statements and then the fragmented stories Sherlock, John, Mycroft, and even Molly had told him privately over time, but he knows it was horrific. Mycroft’s been doing better lately, though. He’s been sleeping through the night more often, smiling more easily. He’s let Greg rub his back and pet his hair, and sometimes they sit up and watch old black and white detective films together late at night when Mycroft just can’t settle back down after a dream shocks him awake.

Greg… Greg loves him, and it happened quickly, but he’s been so  _ happy,  _ so— 

“I think it’s time we were honest with ourselves,” Mycroft’s saying on the phone, as refined as he ever is even as he’s letting Greg down, if not gently, then at least not too harshly. 

Greg swallows hard around the shape of his own rougher accent and tries to figure out what to say to that other than,  _ I should have known this would happen eventually.  _

“No, yeah, you’re right,” Greg manages to say long minutes later, interrupting a cold, inflectionless monologue about work schedules and realistic expectations. “It’s been fun, yeah?” 

Mycroft says something. Greg can’t understand it, he just knows it isn’t agreement. 

They hang up at the same time. 

Maybe it doesn't start there. 

  
  


***

  
  


Maybe it starts a little further back, the first day Greg knows he’s in love. It’s a Sunday morning and it’s his day off, and Mycroft called him late last night and said “My trip has been cancelled, would you—” 

Greg was already getting out of bed.  _ “Yes. _ Send the car.”

It had been late when the car dropped him off in front of Mycroft’s Pall Mall digs, almost late enough to be considered the middle of the night. Still, Mycroft was wide awake when he opened the door. He didn’t even say hello before pressing Greg gently against it and starting a slow, sensuous grind together as they kissed each other breathless. 

They’d almost given up and rutted to the end in the foyer, and then almost on the stairs. There was a near incident in the hallway outside Mycroft’s bedroom, where Greg almost came too soon, just because Mycroft nuzzled his nose in all sweet and warm against his throat even as his hand twisted tight and relentless around Greg’s leaking cock, everything so soft and sweet and hard and hot all at once— 

Anyway, he wakes up the next morning and he’s a little sore and so relaxed he can’t believe it. Mycroft’s out cold next to him with his hair a complete wreck and red scratches over the shoulder peeking up out of the covers, the little lines marking the place Greg’s nails dug in somewhere around sunrise. 

And Greg thinks:  _ I’d live here with you if you asked me. I’d take care of you if you had the flu. Let’s adopt a cat together.  _

He blinks up at the ceiling and swallows a hysterical laugh. 

_ Wow. I love him.  _

“Are you a cat person, or a dog person?” He asks Mycroft while he’s shaving and Greg’s watching a couple of hours later. 

Mycroft squints at him in the mirror. “What?”

Greg shrugs. “Nothing.”

  
  


***

  
  


For all Greg knows it starts with the first kiss, the morning after Greg drives Mycroft home from an actual horror film and then sits up with him, keeping watch for an attacker who never shows. 

Or it starts with the tremor in Mycroft’s hands as he buckles himself into Greg’s car. 

Maybe it starts with styrofoam cups of tea in a hospital waiting room. 

Or it starts with a town car idling silently outside Greg’s flat the day after he meets a junkie so smart it scares him a bit. 

Probably doesn't matter where it starts. 

  
  


***

  
  


John calls Greg a week before the day and says: “We’re getting married, if you want to come.” 

Greg isn’t surprised at all. They were taking Rosie over, something about how she should see where her mum came from, though she’s only two and can’t know what’s so significant about looking at the childhood home of a dead woman who had a totally different name when she lived there from the one she had when Rosie was born. It’s definitely a trip for John and Sherlock to put whatever remaining ghosts to rest. 

Greg had had a feeling that whenever they finally managed that final exorcism, this would happen. 

It isn’t even a question, whether Greg will go or not. He loves both of those idiots, and god knows he has plenty of leave saved up from indulging his addiction to work for the last twenty years. He hasn’t been on vacation since the one he finished the week John and Sherlock got up to all that in Dartmoor. 

He does the mental math while he’s packing his bags: Six? Seven years? 

He doesn't feel at all guilty about requesting a full two weeks. He’ll go to the wedding and then figure it out from there. His savings are healthy; he could rent a car and drive down the East coast, see what he can see. Maybe even camp a bit, like he used to do in his twenties. Why not? 

Of course it occurs to him - multiple times - that Mycroft will probably be at his brother’s wedding. But Greg sets that aside. He was never going to be able to avoid him forever. 

  
  


***

  
  


Greg gets ready for the reception in Mrs. Hudson’s room. Apparently the boys flew her out a week ago, and she’s been living it up at the hotel spa almost every day. She’s cheeky with relaxation, teasing Greg about whether he’d let a little old lady enjoy the show while he gets into his suit. His cheeks flame red as he laughs, ducking into the bathroom, and tells her she’s too much woman for him, nothing little or old about her.

He’s always enjoyed flirting with Mrs. Hudson. They’re both good sports and she’s saucy and sly when she’s in a certain mood. 

“How on Earth you’re going to manage sharing with—” 

“Don’t remind me,” Greg mutters, tying his tie in the mirror while Mrs. Hudson gathers up her handbag and lipstick and whatever else she’ll need down at the reception. 

“If my boys can get their act together,” she says blithely, “I am sure Mycroft Holmes can get his together, too.”

Greg quirks an eyebrow at her in the mirror but she’s not looking at him. Greg hadn’t realized til today that she ever knew about him and Mycroft. 

In hindsight, it makes sense that it was a casual thing, not as serious as Greg thought or hoped. It’s not like they ever acted…  _ together.  _ Or saw other people, as a couple. 

Greg had just assumed they both liked being alone with each other. 

“I’m heading down, dear,” Mrs. Hudson says, standing beside him to check her hair one last time. “They’ll be back from the courthouse soon, and I want to get some photos before things get too exciting.” 

“Right,” Greg says. “Thanks for letting me hide in here, Mrs. H.” 

She pinches his bum. “My pleasure, Detective Inspector,” she says with a wink. She squeezes his arm next. “Say the word, and you can bunk in with me later, too.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Save me a dance, yeah?”

She waggles her fingers at him and goes, and Greg sighs at himself in the mirror. 

  
  


***

  
  


They’ve rented out a little restaurant inside the hotel for this. It’s not a big group. Greg, Mrs. H, Mycroft, Anthea - Greg wonders where she was during the room snafu - Molly Hooper there with a new lanky bloke on her arm, Mike Stamford and his wife, the Holmes parents, and a handful of people Greg doesn't know. 

“My old army mate, Bill Murray,” John says, introducing Greg to a big, smiley man and his wife. “He lives over here now. Don’t believe a word he says about me.”

Greg laughs along and makes the right noises, asks the right questions, even as he’s clocking Mycroft’s movements through the room. He’d been speaking quietly with Sherlock for a while, Rosie tottering around their legs, and then after a nod and a fleeting touch of Mycroft’s first two fingers to Sherlock’s elbow - downright demonstrative for those two - he makes his way across the room toward where Anthea is involved in a chat with Molly of all people. 

Greg’s always liked the way Mycroft moves. He sighs and yanks his attention back to John’s friend Bill and the embarrassing story he’s telling about John. 

“Think I’m being summoned,” John says after a minute, and sure enough, Sherlock’s having an eyebrow-based conversation with him from across the room. 

It turns out it’s time to sit for dinner. Greg finds the entire thing kind of surreal. The restaurant is candlelit. There’s a pianist. There were two servers wandering with trays of nibbles while everyone stood around with cocktails in hand. 

Now they’re all going to sit at one long table for the meal, and Greg assumes there’ll be speeches or something, though he can’t really imagine who would give them. John and Sherlock did the actual wedding bit on their own, took Mycroft as witness and Rosie-wrangler from what Greg’s gathered, and that’s it. They’re each other’s best man. It couldn’t really be any other way. 

Greg’s seated between Molly and Stamford and— 

And across from Mycroft. 

Greg’s life. It’s such a joke. 

  
  


***

  
  


Greg talks to Molly a lot at first. Doesn't want to look at Mycroft, though he can’t exactly avoid it entirely without being really obvious. He can’t keep his neighbors’ attention on him the entire time. They all have to eat sooner or later. 

He sticks to staring at the seared scallops on the tiny plate delivered as a starter, and then at the empty space where the plate was in between it and the next course. 

Just after they’ve all been served gorgeous filet mignon with potatoes and haricot verts almondine, Mycroft clears his throat. 

Greg glances up at him and nearly flinches. He’s watching Greg quietly in that Holmesian way of darting the eyes here and there, stripping all your secrets off you at a glance. 

“How are you?” Mycroft asks, voice pitched low. No one around them is paying attention to their conversation. 

“I’ve been better,” Greg says honestly. He doesn't even think to lie or shrug it off. He has no desire to let Mycroft off the hook. Weeks later, and Greg’s no less stung by the sudden dismissal. “You?”

Mycroft’s lips draw out in a thin, miserable line. He looks tired. “The same,” he says. 

“Are you sleeping?”

Mycroft shrugs one shoulder. 

Before he can say anything, Mike Stamford leans in to make small talk with Greg, and Mycroft turns his face away, looking hazily down the length of the table to where Sherlock is using a napkin to clean mashed potato off of Rosie’s chubby cheeks. 

  
  


***

  
  


After the mains, there’s a cheese course, and then John gives a best man toast. He doesn't outright mention that Sherlock’s already done one for him, just makes a crack about nothing about them being conventional. Greg wonders how they manage to function with all the clinging, onion skin layers of history and missed chances between them. 

It’s a bit emotional, when he thinks about it. Something about all roads leading home. 

Greg has to look away from John’s thrilled, proud face. Too bad his eyes land right on Mycroft, who has clearly been staring at Greg’s profile. Greg quirks an eyebrow in question, and Mycroft gives a minute shake of his head. 

Greg swallows a sigh. 

  
  


***

  
  


And then there’s a little dancing, the piano wrapping up to be replaced by a DJ. Greg gives Mrs. Hudson a spin around the small dance floor, and then Anthea, who hooks an arm around his neck when he reels her back in from a twirl, and says: “Talk to him.” 

Greg just wrinkles his nose at her before he dips her as low as he can without dropping her on the floor. 

He hands Anthea off to Sherlock, who really is an excellent dancer, and heads to the bar. Whiskey (neat) in hand, he leans there at the far end, on his own, and catches his breath. He can see Mycroft’s mum holding and rocking a drooping Rosie across the restaurant while she chats with Mrs. Hudson. 

“Sherlock has a family,” Mycroft murmurs, materializing at Greg’s elbow. “Can you imagine?”

“It’s really nice,” Greg says softly. He takes a healthy sip of his whiskey. “They’re your family too, now.” 

Mycroft hums. It’s not an agreement. 

Greg turns to look at him and asks again. “You been sleeping?”

“Not well,” Mycroft admits. 

Greg doesn't know what to say, so he presses his whiskey into Mycroft’s hand. “Drink this,” he says. “I’m going to get another. You want? Might help you knock out tonight.”

Mycroft nods silently and Greg turns to lean over the bar and wave to get the bartender’s attention. 

“Here,” he says to Mycroft, and swaps a fresh tumbler for the empty one. He clinks the rim of his new glass against the rim of Mycroft’s. “Cheers, Mycroft.”

“Greg,” Mycroft says, shaky. “I… I shouldn’t have done what I did.” 

Greg blinks. Christ, but he wasn’t expecting  _ that.  _ “What, dump me over the phone after you ignored me for a week?”

“I didn’t…” Mycroft winces, face tilting down into his glass. “At the time, I didn’t think of it as… as  _ dumping _ you.” 

“What else could it have been?”

Mycroft glances up at him, then quickly back down to the depths of his drink. “Freeing you?” 

Greg gapes at him for a moment, struggling to parse that, to connect a web of dots in his mind in order to get at what that really  _ means.  _ It takes a significant amount of background knowledge, deciphering a Holmes. Lucky for Greg, he’s spent the last decade learning how. The complicated equation of social ineptitude + low self esteem covered by peacocking + poor manners, multiplied by the firm belief that they are  _ always right,  _ is one Greg’s used to running in his head, subbing in whatever bizarre thing one of them is saying and coming up with a translation to plain English. 

In this case,  _ ‘Freeing you’ _ translates roughly to  _ ‘I didn’t actually know you were my boyfriend.’ _

“Jesus Christ, Mycroft,” Greg says, shaking his head. “Come  _ on.” _

Mycroft’s knuckles are white where he’s holding his whiskey. 

“Don’t shatter it,” Greg murmurs, reaching out and smoothing his fingers over Mycroft’s. “Ease up. You’re alright.”

“I—” 

“Did you honestly think,” Greg says quietly, “that I spent half a year in your bed because I felt sorry for you for having a psychotic sister? Because Sherlock asked me to, or some idiocy like that?”

“I wouldn’t put it in those terms,” Mycroft hedges. 

“Drink your whiskey.” Greg drains his. “We need to talk. Not in here.” 

  
  


***

  
  


He finds them a quiet hallway. 

“Do you want me?” Greg demands, hands shoved in his trouser pockets. 

Mycroft sucks in a surprised little breath. “Yes.” 

“Do you… do you  _ like  _ me?”

Mycroft’s face softens.  _ “Yes.”  _

“Because I’m actually in love with you.” Greg swallows. “You broke my heart, a bit.”

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft says quickly, stepping forward. “I’m  _ so _ sorry, I wasn’t… I’m  _ not _ at my best, and I find these things difficult even when I am.” 

Greg nods. “Yeah, I get that, I guess. Just… you’re not allowed to do it again.” 

Mycroft nods back at him. “Yes, I understand.”

“Good,” Greg says. “Now, we need to go back to this wedding. We can… we can figure out the rest later. We’re sharing a room, so it’s not like we won’t have time.”

Mycroft looks completely terrified. 

“I’m not going to— I don’t want to have a row about it.” Greg rubs his hand wearily over the back of his own neck. “I just want what we had back, Mycroft. It’s been awful. I thought we were really happy together, and—” 

“We were,” Mycroft says. “Happy together. I was happy with you. You— No one has  _ ever—  _ ever cared for me the way that you did. I… you can’t know how much it meant to me.” 

Greg wants to wrap him up in a blanket.  _ God.  _ “I liked taking care of you,” he says. “I liked how you took care of me. You and your surprise lunches and bloody excellent shoulder rubs. It was probably the best relationship I’ve ever been in.” 

Mycroft smiles. It’s small, but it’s genuine. “It was?”

“Yeah, obviously,” Greg says. “I mean. And the sex?”

“Yes,” Mycroft breathes. “That… yes.” 

Greg feels a grin tug at the corner of his lips. “Come have one more drink with me. Congratulate your brother and John. And then come upstairs with me. I’ll take care of you some more. Yes?”

“Yes.”

  
  


***

  
  


They have one more drink. John and Sherlock dance to a slow song, and then people join them. Greg takes a chance and in the shadowed back corner of the restaurant, tugs Mycroft close to him. 

“Dance with me,” he says. 

What they end up doing is more of a swaying, upright embrace. No form, no rhythm, no space between. Mycroft trembles. 

“I’ve got you,” Greg whispers in his ear. 

  
  


***

  
  


They’re in the lift and Greg wants to kiss him. Badly. Right now. 

“Greg?”

He turns. “Yeah?”

“May I—” 

“Please.” 

Mycroft’s fingers are long and cool against Greg’s cheeks and his mouth, his  _ mouth.  _ Greg whimpers into the kiss. It’s not even a really exciting one, it’s just. 

He missed him so stupid bloody much. 

Greg kisses back, slipping his arms around Mycroft’s waist and sighing happily as their tongues slide together. 

They part. 

Mycroft says, “I love you, and I’m so sorry.” 

Greg can only make a sound that’s somewhere between wounded and elated, before he pulls him back in. 

They’re still going at it when the lift dings and announces their floor in a smooth, recorded voice. Greg’s uncomfortably hard in his trousers. 

“We can just talk,” he forces himself to say as they make their way down the corridor to the room. “I just want to make that clear, it’s… if I have my way we’ll have all the time in world to—”

“We can talk after,” Mycroft breathes, and they’re on each other before Greg can get the door open. 

  
  


***

  
  


Greg groans, hips hitching up and arms holding tight to Mycroft’s shoulders. He wants Mycroft’s weight on him, wants to wrap his legs around him and come with all their skin touching everywhere. 

Mycroft’s breath comes fast, and Greg can hear a whine catching at the back of his throat. 

“You can come, baby,” Greg soothes, stroking his hands sweetly down his back. “Let it go.”

“Oh, my god,” Mycroft sobs against Greg’s throat, and he goes still as he does it, dripping all over Greg’s belly, the crease of his thigh, against Greg’s cock. “Greg, Greg—” 

“So fucking—” Greg reaches down between them and takes himself in hand. “So hot when you come all over me, I  _ dream _ about it.”

Mycroft is wide-eyed and gasping as Greg arches beneath him and comes all over his own hand. 

“That was—” Mycroft drops his forehead against Greg’s. 

“Great?”

“I was going to say  _ fast.” _

Greg laughs. “Missed each other,” he says. “We’ll take our time next round.”

Mycroft groans and squirms against him. “I’m overstimulated just imagining another round.”

“I’ll give you time to catch your breath, don’t worry.” 

Mycroft slides off him, sweat and bodily fluids going cold fast in the climate controlled air. He stays close, though, curled into Greg’s side. 

“Anthea talked me into seeing a psychotherapist,” he admits to Greg’s shoulder. 

The handy old Holmes-to-English equation translates that little tidbit to:  _ I’m dealing with the problems that made me hurt you before. _

“Thank fuck,” Greg murmurs. “She’s so smart.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft’s hand slips over Greg’s chest, fingers stroking through the light bit of hair there. “I missed this terribly.” 

“Why’d you do it?”

Mycroft’s fingers still against Greg’s collarbones. “I just…” He sighs. “I suppose I was attempting to beat you to it, so to speak. I know I’m not an easy person to… with whom to be  _ intimate.” _

Greg smiles to himself. He’d missed those awkward little phrasings, too. 

“And especially after my sister… I realize it’s not something a person wants to deal with long-term. Long hours, strange moods, awful family, secrets I can’t tell you.” Mycroft sighs again, this time very heavily, like the weight of the world is sitting on his chest. “And you are such a kind, giving, genuinely  _ decent _ person. I managed to convince myself not only that you deserved better - which I still believe - but that those very qualities had made you more likely to… out of a feeling of charity or—”

“That’s not what I was doing.”

“I know.”

Greg turns, bringing them face to face, and curves his arm around Mycroft’s waist. “Therapist helping you out?”

“Yes, very much. Sherlock has been seeing one as well.”

“John mentioned,” Greg says. “I think that’s great.” 

“It’s difficult for me.” 

“I’ll just bet.” He kisses Mycroft’s worried brow. “I want you to know that I never thought you were difficult to be around or be… intimate with. It was easy, Mycroft. It was  _ really _ easy.” 

Mycroft shivers and presses in closer. “You are exceptional.”

Greg chuckles. “Wow,” he says. “Thanks.”

  
  


***

  
  


“I wanted to move in with you and adopt a cat,” Greg says in the dark, hours and hours later. They’ve just been lying there talking. He feels  _ very _ honest just now. 

“Really?”

“Mmhmm.”

“You -  _ we - _ could.”

“Maybe.” Greg finds his hand in the dark. “One thing at a time. But yes. Yeah. I still want to.” 

“Thank god,” Mycroft breathes. 

  
  


***

  
  


In the morning, Greg’s pleasantly sore and Mycroft’s covered in lovebites. They stare at each other from their pillows. For a split second, Mycroft looks completely at sea. 

Greg reaches for him, and he settles. 

“I’m on vacation for two weeks,” Greg says, expecting to be gently told no after he asks this, but he has to put it out there. “Want to spend some of it with me? Road trip down the coast?” 

“Yes, please,” Mycroft murmurs, to Greg’s surprise. “I’ll have Anthea arrange it.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” 

  
  


***

  
  


They see John, Sherlock, and Rosie off on a family-vacation-stroke-honeymoon in the Carribean, where Sherlock plans to see every single pirate thing he can find in the internet guides. 

By late that afternoon, Mycroft’s buckling himself next to Greg in their fancy rental car. He fidgets once he’s finished. Greg gets it; alone in a car for days, they’re going to hash out some things. Some if it won’t be pretty. But.

Greg covers Mycroft’s hands with one of his own. “You ready?” 

Mycroft meets his eyes and smiles. Nods. “Very.” 

Greg has to kiss him - just a little, and then a lot - before he starts driving. 

This is where it starts.

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously Sherlock got someone to hack the hotel's system to double book them. 
> 
> Title is from Lisa Loeb's "I Miss You" because I am a basic bitch who was raised on 90s romcoms and romantic dramas with somewhat folksy lady-rock-driven soundtracks. 
> 
> Find me on Twitter @meansgirlwrites


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